6/16/2006

Memories

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
are you there picking up flowers, flowers, flowers,
flowers, are you picking up
flower from the grave of Tiananmen Square.

Down with Marcos,
Down with the Shah,
Down with Apartheid,
Down with dictator,
Down, down, down, down with whosoever slaughters,
Despite mothers.

We are here, we are here, we are here lighting up fire.
Fire, fire, fire everywhere.
Do you see, do you see, do you see fire
light up Berlin, light up Poland, light up a cigarette: it's the
latest in Paris called "Gorbachev" in the hands of yuppies. Do you see
Do you see fire in everyone's soul.

It has been a nightmare, nightmare, nightmare.
Nightmare at Stony Brook day care center.
Three year old Xiao Tang from Beijing has a nightmare.
Four year old Rena from Shanghai has a nightmare.
Let's form a circle, listen.
Xiao Tang and Rena have something to tell us about China.
Four year old Joshua from Spain.
Five year old Laura Lea from Switzerland.
Four year old Sasha from Russia.
Five year old Juna from Korea.
Three year old Adrien from Jamaica.
Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Everywhere, let's tell our children
everywhere:
"Policemen beating up people."
"They were bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, all bleeding,
they were students...."
"We watched it on N.B.C."
"My father said, let's march, let's march, let's march,
let's march with your mother, let's march with your brother,
let's march with your sister, let's march from Washington to
Harlem to Tiananmen Square to everywhere."

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
Are you there painting pictures, pictures, pictures.
pictures, are you painting
pictures with the blood of the black, with the blood of the yellow,
with the blood of the brown, with the blood of the white,
with the blood of the red.

It has been our dream, dream, dream.
Dream. A dream since our father's father's father
to our baby's baby's baby.
Ask our father's father's father about World War I.
Ask our father's father about World War II.
Ask our father about the fifties.
Ask our uncle about the sixties.
Ask our sister about the seventies.
Ask our brother about the eighties.
Ask George Jackson about the prison.
Ask the Vietnam Veterans about their lost friends and arms and legs.
Ask about the boat people where they have been going, still going.
Ask the seamstresses in the Lower East Side about the Triangle fire.
Ask the elderly by the Hudson River about their doom in nursing homes.
Ask our babies about their long wait for day care.
Ask the immigrant in the farms.
Ask the fish in the Love Canal.
Ask the whales in the North Sea.
Ask Allen Ginsberg in Naropa.
Ask, ask, ask, ask.
Ask whosoever in Kent State, in Berkeley, in the Middle East,
in El Salavador, in Tibet, in Africa,
in Northen Ireland, in everyplace,
Everyplace, everyplace, everyplace.
Ask the Russian, ask the Iranian, ask the Cambodian,
ask the Filipino, ask the Jew, ask the Chinese,
ask the American Indian.
Ask, ask, ask, ask.
Ask whosoever has a dream
Ask whosoever's dream is falling from the rising,
rising from the falling.

We are here, we are here, we are here watering flowers,
flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere.
Do you see, do you see, do you see flowers,
blossoms in Nicaragua, blossoms in Romania, blossoms in the
administration for equal opportunies, bloosoms in the
laboratories for the animal's rights. Do you see
do you see flowers blossom in so many colors everywhere
everywhere everywhere.
Solidarity to our flowers.

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
are you writing poems, poems, poems,
poems, are you writing
poems with the shadows in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow. Isn't it cold on Champs Elysees, Yoko ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your nose.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your lips.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your memory of Kyoto.
Yoko, is it snow flake or white hair on your head ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way ?
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from kneeling down to scrub a man's back in the hot tub with hate and love in Kyoto
to standing up in the wind to be accompanied by the bitterness in a cup of coffee at St. Germain
Des-Pris ?
Yoko, what are you going to do with your Ph.D. in philosophy lincensed by Sorbonne ?
Yoko, why are you selling your degree to Paris Vision to escort tours to the Louvre ?
How much is it, Yoko ?
How much do they pay you ?
As a second sex,
A third class citizen,
And a salary nobody wants.
How much do you pay, Yoko ?
A heart hovering in between Paris and Kyoto with no home.
A dream searching everywhere and ending up nowhere.
Yoko, my heart is soring.
Yoko, sayonara.
Oh, au revoir.
No, I don't want to leave you.
Yoko, let's hold hands
Through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow, isn't it cold, Irene ?
Isn't it cold in the Pocono Mountains, Irene ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your cup of hands.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your memory of your cat at the ashram in California.
Irene, isn't it cold ? the lake is frozen.
From now on, can you dance
on the thin ice to whichever direction that you like ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from letting go of a broken heart
to bumping around on the highways from San Diego to Santa Fe to Tulsa to Boulder to the Pocono Mountains to writing a book called "Where to Go After a Divorce" ?
Irene, what are you going to do with your cat left at the ashram and the herbal garden in your dream ?
Irene, day after day, month after month, year after year
of bumping around, can you tell me where to shop for instant enlightenment in so many stores on the highways from coast to coast ?
Irene, isn't it cold ? Isn't it cold
where George said, "No more, you go yours and I go my own way." ?
Irene, are you letting go, are you letting go
of so much love and tears like a balloon in the air ?
How much does a marriage pay, Irene ?
How much does a marriage pay you ?
Legal prosititution,
Free slavery,
And the blame for your man's adultery.
Irene, how much do you pay ?
A cat sent to the holy ashram.
Cold eyes from your parents who warned you before hand.
Irene, my heart is hurting.
Irene, good luck on your journey.
Oh, I will miss you.
No, I don't want to leave you.
Irene, let's hold hands
through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow. Isn't it cold, Yen ?
Isn't it cold in Chinatown, Yen ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your eye lashes.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your silence.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your daughter's Afro hair on a Chinese face.
Yen, don't you think your daughter wants a bite of egg roll ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way ?
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from New York's Chinatown where your parents called him "Nigger"
to Louisana where his parents called you "Chink"
and both of you got kicked out to nowhere ?
Isn't it cold ?
Isn't it cold in this world ?
Yen, what are you going to do with Jim and your little daughter ?
Yen, are you turning to Jesus ?
Yen, are you turning to social welfare ?
How much is love, Yen ?
How much does love pay you ?
Discrimination,
Racial prejudices,
And rejection by both families.
Yen, how much do you pay ?
Drop out of medical school,
Loss of roots and identity and dignity.
Yen, my heart is hurting.
Yen, send my love to your daughter.
Oh, tell her she is beautiful.
No, I don't want to leave you.
Yen, let's hold hands
through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow. Isn't it cold Magarita ?
Isn't it cold in Venice, Magarita ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your fingers.
Snow is falling, falling
falling onto your note book.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your memory of the stain of blood.
Magarita, you are now in a quiet town. There is no more blood.
From now on, will you settle down by the ocean and walk on the beauty of the snow ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way ?
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from picketing capitalism in fron of the White House as an Italian American idealist
to studying Chinese in a socialist utopia China to ten years later
to be haunted by the bloodshed at Tiananmen Square as a correspondent for the A.P. ?
Magarita, what are you going to do with your idealism and heart and tears ?
Magarita, are you now meditating in front of the Buddha on human sufferings and pondering on the Tibetan Book of the Dead ?
How much does your dream pay, Magarita ?
Disillusioned by Marx and Engels.
Deceived by socialist utopia advocates to serve the people.
Disoriented about life and death.
How much do you pay, Magarita ?
Over exhausted and drained of tears.
Traveling around the world and ending up in a small room in your parents' home in suburban Venice not knowing where to go tomorrow.
Magarita, my heart is hurting.
Magarita, sleep tight tonight.
Oh, tomorrow don't forget to call me to tell me your other dreams.
Magarita, let's hold hands
through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
Snow, so many shadows, shadows,
Shadows of our sister's sister's sister,
Shadows of our mother's mother's mother,
Shadows of daughter's daughter's daughter
in every corner under the stars.
Tonight, who's going to comfort you ?
Simone De Beauvoir,
Jesus,
Sivananda,
Plato,
Buddha,
Social worker,
or whosoever talks to your soul.
Come, let's hold hands,
and let's write our poems on the snow.
The road is long,
There are twists and turns, turns and twists.
But we are not lonely.
We have each other.

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
are you there dancing in the sky, sky, sky,
sky. Are you dancing on the
rainbow in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky. I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky stares at the clouds.
Clouds, clouds,
clouds. I ask the clouds, where are you ?
The clouds pass me by.
The tree we planted on Long Island has grown old.
It's shadow has fallen onto my shadow.
The tree and I love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher th an the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Johnny ! We found you in the sky
when you flew over our head on P.A. 747 in the mid summer of the days of youth.
Our blood was hot,
Our heart flew with you.
You brought home science, dance of freedom, and the hands to soothe your mother's wrinkles from missing a long absent son.
You said you will come back to see us on a rainbow built on the debris from years of battle in Cambodia.
But, you never did,
not even sending a leaf.
The tree is asking,
where could you be ?
They said you must have been killed - a common fate to Western educated intellectuals trying to re-build a ruined home.
The tree and I laugh !
How could it be ?
How could a soul vanish ?
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky leaves me with the wind.
Wind, wind,
wind, I ask the wind, where are you ?
The wind dances with a whistle.

The footprints we left on the mountains have become a path.
It stretches higher an higher leading to the sky.
The path and I love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher than the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Willy ! We found you in the mud -
Barefoot, shaved head, yellow robe,
standing alone, deep inside the moutanins.
We found no word,
Our heads dropped dead.
You turn around, serene in the lotus pond.
Willy,
Oh, Reverned White !
Where is our student leader at Berkely anti-war ?
Where is our union organizer agitates the rank and file ?
Rev. White, what would you tell the labor of AFL-CIO and ILGWU ?
You rose from the mud,
bow to the mountains and all sentient beings.
The war in your heart has long been dead.
Is it another life, another time, another world ?
You vanished like a cloud in the moutains.
We must look for you in the sky.
Where are you ?
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky cares for the night.
Night, night,
night. I ask the night, where are you ?
The night is in love with the stars.
The stars we counted have become a lamp.
It shines particularly bright during the night.
The lamp and I love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher than the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Dan ! We read your poems in the Village Voice -
You posted your life on the Deomcratic Wall !
The Poem was burnt in the fire facing the tanks. It's translation has flown over the ocean.
It takes no underground tunnel,
No asylum,
No exile.
It is open in the air
widely read.
But, where are you ?
Many of your brothers and sisters are now in Chicago, In New York, In Paris, In Hong Kong, in wherever the stars glows.
We see Chai Ling, Wuer Kaixi.
But, where are you ?
They said you must be sharing the pain with more brothers and sisters in the old dark prison in Beijing.
I look at the stars,
And write under the lamp.
No matter where you are,
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky hums with the ocean.
Ocean, Ocean,
ocean, I ask the ocean, where are you ?
The ocean accompanies the seagulls.
The ocean, the seagulls, and the universe have formed an orchestra.
Their melody takes me to another world.
The orchestra and me love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher than the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Professor Lim ! We found you in the "Book of the World's Famous People" in the Great British Museum.
But, you said your spot light was off 30 yers ago when you took your violin played in front of the Queen in Holland to go to China to serve the people as a teacher.
But, how could you do that, when you spoke six Eurpoean languages but not a single Chinese word ?
You said, it is O.K. music language is universal.
You said, it is also O.K. to step down from the glamour of the stage.
But, is it O.K. to be accused of petty bourgeoisie romanticism during Cultural Revolution and asked to be re-educated through labor ?
Is it also O.K. to play the broom in the kitchens and the bathrooms
and to teach Tchaikovsky and Mozart to the cows and pigs ?
You tried to escape
to heaven.
Many succeeded by suicide.
But you escaped to Hong Kong with twelve dollars in your hands.
Now, Hong Kong is under the shadow of communist take over in 1997.
Where are you going to go ?
You have been famous in France, in Germany, in Russia, in Italy, and in England.
But now who 's going to take you when a young genius has grown into an exhausted old man ?
I went to the record store to look for you.
The man said, "Oh ! The old generation."
I said, "Berstein's generation."
The man laughed.
The ocean, the seagulls, and the orchestra are waiting for you.
Where are you ?
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, so many dances, dances,
dances on the rainbow in the sky. I see the
dances of my brother's brother's brother,
dances of my father's father's father,
dances of my childern's children's children,
following the melody of their souls
fading in and fading out like a rainbow.
Today, where can we look for you ?
By the ocean,
Inside the mountains,
Within a poem,
Over the debris,
Under the bloodshed,
In another life, another time, another world,
or wherever the heart goes.
Come, let's dance together
with the coming and going of rainbow
under so many colors and emptiness, emptiness and so many colors,
But let's dance
on a rainbow
never vanish from our souls.

August, 1989 Stony Brook, New York

More Memories:

LITTLE CONVERSATION
( A poem copied from the wall of Tiananmen Square in the summer of 89' by an unknown author)

Child: Momma, momma, why ar all these little aunts and uncles not eating ?
Mother: Because they are thinking of beautiful gift.
Child: What gift ?
Mother: Freedom.
Child: Who is going to give them this gift ?
Mother: They themselves.

Child: Moma, moma, why are so many people on the square ?
Mother: Because it is a festival day.
Child: What kind of festival day ?
Mother: A day for lighting fires.
Child: Where are the fires ?
Mother: In everyone's soul.

Child: Momma, Momma, who are sitting in the ambulances ?
Mother: Heros.
Child: Why are heros lying down ?
Mother: So that the children standing behind can see.
Child: Like me ?
Mother: Yes.
Child: See what ?
Mother: A seven-colored bouquet of flowers.

1 comment:

About Me

Stephanie, S.H. Chin is a multicultural, Multilingual journalist/writer/poet who has traveled and lived in 20 countries. Ms. Chin has worked as editor in chief, editor, journalist, research writer for medias such as NBC, CNBC, NBC-Asia, TVB, CNN, Washington Post, Asian Sources, Singtao (NYC), TVB. She is a member of the HK Journalist Association, Asian American Journalist Association, and the HK Writers Circle. Before moving to Hong Kong she was coordinator of the Poetry Center at the State University of N.Y. at Stony Brook and Co-Director of Worldwide Writers Services in N.Y. She is the recipient of numerous grants and awards including Westhampton Writers Festival, Utah U., SUNY URECA, SUNYSB, SUNY Albany, Long Island Writers Festival Awards, etc. She was a visiting writer in collaboration with the Fulbright Commission to China (e.g. Sichuan University, Beijing Foreign Language U., Beijing Normal U., Shenyang U., Changsa U, Shenzhen U., Guangzhou Foreign Language U., etc.) Her poetry book is “Finger of a Loving Hand”. She translates her own poems. She studied at HKU & SUNY at Stony Brook (Special thank to Cornelius Eady who inspired me) contact: stephaniechin88@gmail.com